Journal of JFK assasination :: essays research papers

November 22, 1963The cheers and cries of the crowd were roaring and still escalating as he approached. The 1961 Lincoln Continental peered over the corner. The flap of hands in the air blocked the crystalline lens momentarily. Two security motorcycles made the turn on Elm road and I felt excitement circulate my entire body as I knew any second the 35th President of the United States, conjuration F. Kennedy, would appear. My legs trembled as I felt the breeze of the motorcade approach me. I was perched on a stone on Elm Street grasping my 8mm campana and Howell camera. To Kennedys request his automobile would be without a top. Kennedy was now focus on my camera. I attentively filmed the hands of the President moving ridge to the crowds of spectators but if they had only known they were about to be spectators of a mordant tragedy. And right then and there, on a clear November 22, 1963, John Fitzgerald Kennedy was assassinated. The laudation of the motorcade presently turned in to an outcry of thousands. An ineffable blanket of terror covered me but I stood concretely filming the bomb of blood explode in my front of my eyes until the vehicle violently swerved and disappeared into an overpass. My heart dropped to the floor. I maxim the world, I felt the world enter utter commotion, but my ears were non receptive to sound. A silence domed the scene.BOOM The unbearable hoo-ha rang in my ears. I saw his body jump forward and his head word swing back wildlyI stared, I tried, but I could no longer be reluctant to the truth.September 5, 1959The scolding became dower of the norm. The drill sergeant loved to yell and torment all of those chthonic his command. I felt compassion especially for a man who seemed to swallow persistent trouble with the Corps. He was considered an outcast by many. Out in the range he had very poor marksmanship. Drill sergeant Peters seemed to fuck decrying this man. If he would become hesitant due to exhaustion from physical tra ining, Sergeant Peters would soon enough get on his case and verbally excruciation him. I looked into the mans eyes and saw a clear-sighted expression of fear, anger, and distress cooking up all at once. A mask veiled despondent inside of him. He surely was not an exceptional shooter, or the fittest man there.